A Poem, A chance

Maybe I no longer seek fame

That creaking, hungry beast

Sneaking up on the hopeful weak,

When it goes seeking for a feast.

Maybe I wish to reflect alone

In the wild unknown

An eye to witness

With bated breath

Not a body

That awaits the catch.

Maybe I wish to belong to no one,

My only home within my bone

To write and write and write and write

And share, but yet unsown.

Maybe I always sought glory,

To be the very best

Can one be a mystic,

And still receive the rest?

I am a poet—

What a phrase it is to say,

How devious, mischievous

A secret in my mind to lay.

To put it to the world,

The judge becomes the many.

How frightening

To show a body,

That which I do not own.

But more horrifying still,

To lay bare

The soul, that which is my own.

-p.a.p